


Too Late

by beeshmoop (sherjylia)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Episode: s03e02 The Sign of Three, Episode: s03e03 His Last Vow, Love Realization, Not Happy, Sherlock Loves John, Sherlock-centric, Unrequited Love, but he doesn't know john loves him, i don't know why i wrote this but it was fun, kind of from sherlock's pov in a way, there is nothing happy about this, this is really not happy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-08
Updated: 2015-08-08
Packaged: 2018-04-13 14:09:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 797
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4524948
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sherjylia/pseuds/beeshmoop
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"Sherlock closes his eyes and sees John standing next to him, a bright, delicate smile gracing his lips.  It’s the special smile, the one he only reserves for Sherlock."</p>
            </blockquote>





	Too Late

It’s not very noticeable at first; the signs that you’ve fallen in love with your ex-flat mate.

He had been subconsciously pining for John for years now and had never realized it until the _worst_ possible moment.

The Wedding.

Sherlock had been holding his glass of champagne, flashed a fake smile, and then, _it_ happened.  His fingers instantly became weak and almost slippery; all of a sudden, he couldn’t keep his tight grip on the glass anymore, and his fingers slowly began to release it.  Sherlock’s face was still plastered with the forced grin, and it took him an excessively long time to respond and understand exactly _what_ was happening.

_I don’t want John to get married._

The camera flashed.  Sherlock felt like it was mocking him.

_I want to be the one to marry John._

The glass collided with the floor and shattered into tiny shards, the liquid spilling out and painting the floor a sickly yellow color.

_I’m in love with John._

* * *

 

 

The night of The Wedding, Sherlock makes his way home at an unreasonably slow pace.

Althoughit’s the only place he derives comfort from, at that moment, even 221B seemed undesirable.  The flat is filled to the brim with memories, ghosts of the past and of the life they once had.  They had been young, idiotic, like lovesick teenagers; Sherlock too afraid of emotions to recognize his own feelings for John, while John was still in denial and unsure whether Sherlock felt the same way.  They had wasted so much _time._ Now they were paying the price.

After he arrived at 221B, clambered up the stairs and made his way into the living room, he halted.  He breathed in the air of the flat, letting himself reminisce about the beginning of his and John’s friendship, before everything went wrong.  Before The Fall.  _Before he got into his horrible mess._

Sherlock closes his eyes and sees John standing next to him, a bright, delicate smile gracing his lips.  It’s the special smile, the one he only reserves for Sherlock.

He returns to the real world, his eyes now open, and John disappears.  He feels something warm trickle down one of his cheeks, and realizes that he’s _crying._

Sherlock never cries.  He hadn’t let himself break down like this since Redbeard.

He’s starting to miss John already.

* * *

_“No, Mrs. Watson, you won’t.”_

He takes a small step forward, and suddenly, a bullet is tearing through him.  He dazes out for a second, the shock steadily beginning to nullify his rational thought process.  Alarms go off in his head.

The shock grows stronger, and he falls backwards, the ground pulling towards him.

_This wasn’t how it was supposed to be,_ he thinks.

He continues scouring through his mind palace, desperately searching for comfort.  Redbeard appears, running towards him eagerly.  The fabricated reality is so vivid that it actually feels real for a fleeting moment.  But a small part of him knows that it can’t last forever, and that it’s nothing but a figment of his imagination.

The pain hits hard and fast, devouring his body, from head to toe.  He was wrong about Mary.  Wrong about _everything._

_Mary’s a liar._

_She lied to John._

* * *

When his consciousness finally returns, the first thing he sees is _her_.

She whispers devilishly, the words rolling off her tongue in a calm but threatening manner.  _You don’t tell John,_ she tells him.

Mary leaves, her departure swift and unnoticed, exactly how she wants it to be.

John never knew she was there.

* * *

_“Because… you chose her.”_

He forces himself to say the phrase, the truth painfully slipping out of his mouth.

_You chose her, and not me._

He hates this, hates everything.  Hates himself for not figuring out Mary’s secret.  Hates himself for not noticing his love for John sooner.  The whole situation is rather sickening.

_Why did you choose her?_

But Sherlock knows.  Knows exactly why he chose her.  Perfect Mary, distracting John from The Fall, pulling him out of the sea of grief, overflowing with a false sense of security.  She gave John the things Sherlock could never give him.

He hates it.

* * *

Red dots dance over his head, the mindless people controlling them ready to shoot at any given moment.  He tells John to stand back, and Sherlock takes a few steps forward, deeper into the danger.

This is all _wrong, wrong, wrong_.

* * *

_“Sherlock is actually a girl’s name.”_

A quiet giggle escapes John, and a grim smile appears on his face.  John tells Sherlock that he’s not naming his and Mary’s daughter after him.

_I love you, John._

They shake hands, and Sherlock gets on the plane.  His eyes grow watery, but no tears fall.  He’s spent too much time grieving and pining, now.

_I’m sorry._

**Author's Note:**

> Sorry if this drabble was shit, but I tried.


End file.
